


The Problem with Friends

by MaryRoyale



Series: Problem verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Narcissa Malfoy & Hermione Granger Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:22:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryRoyale/pseuds/MaryRoyale
Summary: No one tells Narcissa Malfoy "no". At least, not without a back up plan. When the St. Mungo Charity Foundation decides to do a bachelor auction, Hermione turns to her male friends and begs for their help. Pansy Parkinson wins a date with Harry Potter, which might not be the worst thing ever.





	The Problem with Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShayaLonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/gifts).



> Birthday Hansy for ShayaLonnie. Part of the Problem verse.

“CanyoudomeafavourHarry?” Hermione blurted out and then bit her lip.

“What?” Harry looked up from poking at his lunch with a fork.

“Can you do me a favour?” She tried again.

“Of course,” Harry replied automatically. “Anything, love. You know that.”

“You might want to hear what you’re agreeing to first,” Hermione retorted. She started fidgeting in her chair and her gaze flicked around the room.

Well, that was different. Harry leaned back in his chair and stared at Hermione in surprise. Hermione was acting as though she were _guilty_. He watched her wriggle impatiently in her chair and just waited for her to crack.

“I… you know that I’m on the St. Mungo’s Charity Foundation board,” she muttered while she shredded her paper serviette on the table in front of her.

“I do?” Harry frowned and tried to remember whether or not Hermione had mentioned any such thing. “You are?”

“I am,” Hermione sighed. “That’s not really what’s important.”

“It isn’t?” Harry quirked a black brow at Hermione and tilted his head.

“There’s a… a thing. A fundraiser,” Hermione muttered and a dark flush spread under her tawny skin.

“Do you need a donation or something?” Harry asked. “Hermione, I’ll get a draught from Gringott’s tomorrow morning first thing. How much do you need?”

“Erm…” Hermione had run out of serviette and was now wringing her hands in her lap. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Harry leaned forward and took her hand in his. “What is it?”

“It was all Iris Selwyn’s idea,” Hermione muttered, her lip curling with disgust. “Mrs. Malfoy didn’t seem to love it, but everyone else thought it was brilliant. It doesn’t help that it was one of the most successful fundraisers they ever had.”

“Hermione.” The clear command in Harry’s tone brought her jumbled ramble to a halt.

“A bachelor auction.” Hermione averted her eyes.

“A what?” Harry couldn’t have heard that right.

“A bachelor auction,” Hermione repeated. She waved with her free hand. “To be specific, a date with one of wizarding Britain’s most eligible bachelors.”

“Have you asked Ron?” Harry’s mouth asked before his brain caught up. Hermione shook her head.

“No, do you think I should?” Hermione asked hesitantly. “Don’t you think it’s insulting?”

“I think he’ll be ruddy well insulted if you don’t,” Harry countered. “Neville, too.”

“Really?” Hermione appeared surprised at that.

“It’s for St. Mungo’s, Hermione,” Harry reminded her. “Neville, of all people, would be willing to help raise money for St. Mungo’s.”

“It just seems so… so… puerile,” Hermione grumbled.

Harry snorted in amusement. “I’m sure it is. I’ll still do it, and I’m sure that Ron and Neville will, too.”

“Brilliant. Thank you, Harry.” Hermione leaned forward and kissed Harry on the cheek.

“That’s going to be in the Prophet,” Harry grumbled as he picked his fork back up and poked at his lunch. Hermione rolled her eyes at him and he pointed the tines of his fork at her. “See if it isn’t.”

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

Wearing dress robes was never Harry’s favorite thing to do, but Hermione had insisted. He tugged at his cuffs nervously. Harry hated being the center of attention, but he kept reminding himself that it was for charity. _This helps sick kids_ … _people like Neville’s parents_.

“Stop that,” Hermione snapped and swatted at Harry’s hands.

“Watch it,” Harry protested.

With nimble fingers, Hermione straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels. She took a step back and eyed him critically.

“Not bad,” she decided with a small nod.

Hermione’s hair was pulled back from her face and twisted up into some kind of _thing_ that allowed strategic locks of hair to curl about her face. There were understated silver clips that held her hair in place, and Harry was willing to bet that Hermione had cast some kind of super-strength sticking charm to keep her hair in place. Her gown appeared conservative and understated until she turned around and Harry spied the plunging back.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Harry murmured.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Hermione huffed at him. She made a face and wrinkled her nose at him. “Mrs. Malfoy insisted. We saw it when we were shopping for decorations on Diagon Alley.”

“So how does this work?” Harry asked curiously.

“The first hour is a sort of mixer,” Hermione explained. “People will get the chance to talk to you, and decide if they want to bid on a date with you.”

The idea of strangers mobbing him made Harry break out in a cold sweat.

Harry swallowed nervously. “Can you stay with me?”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “You’ll be fine. Neville will be there to beat back the screaming throngs.”

The spicy notes of Hermione’s perfume lingered in the air after she callously abandoned him by a secluded pillar with an encouraging smile and a small wave.  He leaned against the pillar and sulked quietly until Neville managed to find him. Neville’s hair appeared to be slightly disheveled and his cravat was distinctly mussed.

“Hey there, Harry.” Neville gave him a slightly anxious smile.

“What happened to you?” Harry demanded. Neville blushed and shrugged.

“Erm, someone got a bit handsy,” Neville muttered. He waved a hand at Harry. “What are you doing hiding back here? Hermione’ll have kittens if you don’t circulate.”

“Do I have to?” He whinged.

“I think so, yeah,” Neville replied. “How bad could it be?”

Harry glared at Neville. “After five years as an Auror, you’d think you would know better than to say things like that.”

“Sorry.” Neville smirked at him and sauntered off toward the crowd.

“Tosser,” Harry muttered as he followed after him.

It was just as awful as Harry had assumed it would be. People he didn’t know asking him inane, ridiculous questions and pawing at his dress robes. He wondered how angry Hermione would be with him if he hexed the next witch that fondled his chest or tried to pinch his arse. It was with a strange sense of relief that Harry watched Pansy Parkinson march his way and frighten off his potential dates.

“Potter,” Parkinson snapped and glared at him.

“Parkinson.” Harry nodded politely to her.

“How did she do it?” Parkinson demanded with a haughty sneer.

“How did who do what?” Harry asked.

“Your little girlfriend,” Parkinson huffed.

“Parkinson… I don’t have a girlfriend,” Harry said slowly, feeling as though he’d missed something important.

Parkinson tossed her hair and made a disbelieving sound in her throat. Instead of Hermione’s tightly controlled chaos, Parkinson’s hair was a sleek, shiny waterfall of inky black that fell back into place with an obedience that Harry half-envied. Her lips were a brilliant scarlet and she teetered on dangerous-looking heels that probably should be classified as lethal weapons.

“Sure you don’t,” she agreed with a bright, false civility that set his teeth on edge. “How is Granger doing these days?” Parkinson cooed at him. “Still working her way to being the youngest head of the DMLE in the last century?”

“Hermione?” Harry fought the urge to laugh outright. He loved Hermione—loved her with everything that he was—but the idea that she was his _girlfriend_ was inconceivable. “She’s fine.”

Parkinson made some little noise of agreement. “That dress makes her look almost presentable.”

“What do you want, Parkinson?” Harry demanded.

A slow, wicked smile made Parkinson’s scarlet lips curve in a way that made Harry want to take a step back. She placed the tips of her fingers on the sleeve of his dress robes and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“You, Potter. I think I want _you_ ,” she cooed up at him.

“The hell you do,” Harry protested. “You can’t stand me!”

Parkinson rolled her eyes at him. “You were a prat. You’ve gotten better.”

Another intimidating smile, this one over her shoulder, and then Parkinson was swaying away from him on her towering heels.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed.

Maybe Parkinson was joking. One last little dig to make him nervous and stumble when Hermione dragged him up on the stage. He clung to her hand as she led him out to where Mrs. Malfoy was standing with a polite, cool little smile.

“And here we have Harry Potter,” Mrs. Malfoy announced.

Excited chatter spilled over the stage and Harry debated whether or not Hermione would smack him on the arm if he tried to hide behind her. He shifted his feet nervously and glanced toward Mrs. Malfoy who was glancing over the crowd with a vaguely disappointed air. The guests immediately grew quiet, and Harry was impressed in spite of himself. He wondered if Mrs. Malfoy might be willing to help with crowd control.

“Mr. Potter’s interests include Quidditch, travel, and, erm, having fun. He is offering to take his date on a trip to a Muggle amusement park. “ Mrs. Malfoy read from her little card. She paused and smiled. “How exciting. Let’s begin with 100 Galleons, shall we?”

“100 Galleons,” Romilda Vane squealed and then bounced up and down.

“We have 100 Galleons. 150?” Mrs. Malfoy glanced out over the crowd.

“150!” Someone squealed.

The numbers kept going higher and higher and Harry stared at all of them in shock.

“1,000 Galleons,” Parkinson’s voice rang out with cool authority.

Mrs. Malfoy smirked in Parkinson’s direction. “We have 1,000 Galleons.”

A flurry of whispers spread through the room, but no one else bid any higher.

“Going once. Going twice. A date at a Muggle amusement park with Harry Potter goes to Miss Parkinson for 1,000 Galleons,” Mrs. Malfoy announced with smug satisfaction.

“1,000 Galleons,” Hermione said in a slightly stunned voice as she dragged Harry off-stage. “Merlin, no one’s pulled that much all night. Neville only managed 300 Galleons. “

Parkinson was waiting for him at the side of the stage. Her mouth was curled into a mean little smile when she spotted Hermione towing Harry toward her.

“Sorry, Granger, he’s mine now,” Parkinson sneered at Hermione.

“It’s a date, Parkinson,” Hermione told her with a sigh.

“It’s adorable that you think that.” Parkinson smirked at Hermione and dug her nails into Harry. “Don’t let us keep you from helping _dear_ Narcissa.”

Hermione turned Harry with concern in her warm brown eyes. “Harry?”

“I’ll be fine, love,” he told her. Parkinson’s nails seemed to dig into his arm at that.

“I’ll look for you as soon as I’m done,” Hermione promised and Harry nodded before Parkinson began to drag him across the floor.

When they were away from the crowd, Harry jerked his arm free and rubbed his biceps while he glared at his future date.

“What in Merlin’s name was that about?” Harry demanded.

“Perfect Potter and his eternal sidekick, Granger the Clever,” Parkinson hissed at him angrily. Her black eyes snapped and she seemed to seethe with fury.

“You don’t like me,” Harry sighed. “Believe me, Parkinson, I got the memo.”

“You’re an idiot,” Parkinson sneered at him. “Thank Merlin you had Granger to keep you alive for seven years.”  She paused and shot him a look of horror. “She’s not coming on our date, is she?”

“Parkinson, try to listen carefully. I promise to use small words. Hermione is not my girlfriend. She has never been my girlfriend,” Harry growled at her.

“But you want her to be,” Parkinson asked.

Harry threw his hands in the air. “For fuck’s sake!”

“So when is our train wreck of a date?” Parkinson demanded with her hands on her hips.

“Why bother to go?” Harry demanded.

“I paid 1,000 Galleons for you to expose me to Muggle diseases,” Parkinson retorted coolly. “I’m getting my Galleons’ worth, Potter.”

“I’ll have to arrange it around my Auror schedule,” Harry muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end if Parkinson’s expression was anything to go by.

“That’s fine,” Parkinson sniffed. “Just Owl me.”

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 _Dress Muggle_. He’d made a point of actually writing it down and sending it to her. Parkinson was sitting in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron wearing a sleek outfit that he’d never seen _anyone_ wear in Little Whinging. Harry hadn’t realized how accustomed he had become to robes. The flash of bare leg exposed by the fitted slacks Parkinson was wearing seemed almost naughty. He swallowed when Parkinson stood up and he realized the little blouse and jacket seemed to be covering as little of Parkinson’s torso as possible.

“You ready?” His voice came out low and gravelly and he swallowed again.

“I’m fine, thank you Potter. And you?” Parkinson said with a bright smile.

“How are you, Parkinson?” He said with a sigh.

“We’ve already done that bit. Do try to keep up, Potter.” Parkinson patted him on the arm. “Well? Shall we?”

“Right,” he muttered to himself. He held out his hand and Parkinson stared at it for a moment before looking up at him confusion. “Muggles don’t do the arm thing. You’ll have to hold my hand.”

“I didn’t bring gloves,” Parkinson murmured with a small frown.

“I promise I don’t have cooties,” Harry huffed at her.

“Cooties?” Parkinson’s voice rose sharply.

“Muggle disease,” Harry said with a mean little smirk of his own.

“Let’s just go,” Parkinson said and flounced out of the Leaky.

They walked in silence to the public Apparition point. At that point, Parkinson looked up at him with an unreadable expression. Her bright, pink lips pressed together in a tight line and she stepped into his personal space. Suddenly, Harry felt warm. Perhaps he hadn’t needed the jumper. He swallowed and wrapped his arm carefully around Parkinson.

“All set?” Harry asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Parkinson replied stiffly.

“Hold on,” Harry muttered. He flicked his wrist and his wand shot out into his hand.

 _Destination. Deliberation. Determination._ Harry did his very best to concentrate on the 3 Ds and ignore the feel of the witch in his arms. Whenever he had thought about Parkinson, which had been rarely, he always imagined a collection of sharp angles and edges held together with bitterness and attitude. The press of her against him was distinctly soft. There was a light, clean, vaguely citrus-y scent that tickled his nose. Once they’d Apparated to the public Apparition point at Thorpe Park, Harry took a step back, away from Parkinson.

“Right,” he muttered to himself. Parkinson stood next to him stiffly.

A group of people on one of the rides screamed and Parkinson jumped, startled. Her fingers bit into his arms and she stared up at him with fear showing starkly on her face. Automatically, Harry pulled her back into the circle of his arms. He rubbed her back in soothing circles.

“It’s okay,” he told her quietly. “It’s just people on one of the rides.”

“What is this place?” Parkinson asked. She looked around curiously and then looked back up at Harry.

“It’s an amusement park. They have a bunch of rides. It’s supposed to be fun,” Harry explained. He frowned. “We can leave if you want.”

“No.” Parkinson’s spine straightened and she tossed her hair. “I paid for this date. I expect my Galleons’ worth, Potter.”

“Right then. Come on, Parkinson. You like to fly?” He grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the park entrance.

“Yes,” Parkinson admitted. “Why?”

“Brilliant. Hermione’s afraid of heights. She refuses to ride any of the good rides,” Harry admitted. He turned and grinned at her. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

The queue for the rollercoaster was intimidating, and Parkinson huffed and made snarky comments under her breath while they stood in line. Harry managed to ignore her until they made it to the front of the line. She stared at the roller coaster and then looked at Harry.

“We’re getting on _that_?” Parkinson demanded.

“Well, yeah.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “That was the point of standing in the queue all this time.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Parkinson scowled at the roller-coaster.

“Despite what Hermione says, yeah. It’ll be fine, Parkinson. I promise,” Harry told her.

“It had better be.” Parkinson watched the roller-coaster and edged closer to Harry.

When it was their turn, Harry helped Parkinson into the carriage and sat next to her. He threaded his fingers with hers and she clung tightly to his hand when the roller-coaster jerked and began its slow ascent. Her breath caught when they teetered for a moment at the top. When they flew down the first hill, several of the passengers shrieked, but Parkinson never said a word. She clung to his hand tightly with one hand and gripped the bar in front of her with white knuckles. Had he made the wrong choice? Was Parkinson afraid?

Before Harry realized it, the carriage was trundling down the last hill and pulling to a stop at the front. He helped Parkinson out of the carriage and led her over to a bench.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked worriedly. “I’m sorry. I should have… we can do whatever you want. Dinner on Diagon Alley?”

“Can we go again?” Parkinson demanded, her black eyes shining.

“What?” Harry blinked at her in confusion.

“That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done,” Parkinson told him with a wide smile that Harry had never seen before. “I want to go again.”

“Really?” Harry’s answering smile was just as wide. “Yeah, sure. They’ve got a couple of other rides I think you’ll love.”

“Let’s go!” Parkinson grabbed his hand and looked up at him expectantly.

They spent the entire afternoon riding ride after ride. Parkinson never shrieked or screamed. Instead her eyes shone and she would clutch his hand tightly. He earned a couple more of those wide smiles and ignored the way those smiles made him sweat. He bought her ridiculous sweets and laughed at the look on her face when she tried some of them.

At the end of the day Parkinson was far more relaxed than Harry had ever seen her before. In fact, he’d never realized how stiff and formal she was. He knew that he had been more relaxed than he normally was at the Ministry, as well.

“All right there, Parkinson?” Harry asked as they walked toward the public apparition point hand in hand.

“Pansy,” she replied.

“I beg your pardon?” Harry stopped walking and turned to look at her. Parkinson’s cheeks were flushed with color and her eyes glittered with humour.

“Call me Pansy.” Even though she didn’t pull her hand from his, he could feel her pulling back, pulling away from him. Her expression grew neutral and her eyes became shuttered.

“Pansy?” Harry repeated slowly. He gave her a cheeky grin. “Does this mean you’re going to call me Harry now?”

“I suppose.” Pansy’s eyes fell to their entwined fingers before looking back up at him. “D’you want to?”

“I might,” Harry offered.

“It will make dinner less awkward,” Pansy said with a smirk.

“Dinner?” Harry tilted his head at her.

“You said that you would take me out to dinner. When we got off the roller-coaster thing,” Pansy reminded him.

He had, damn it. If he tried to back out now—he’d come off as an arse. Funny thing was… he didn’t want to back out. For the first time in a long time, he’d had let go and relaxed and just… had fun. He didn’t want the day to end. He didn’t want to let go of Pansy’s hand. He didn’t want to run into her on the street tomorrow and hear her call him Potter.

“I did,” he agreed. “Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve had enough of Muggle food for one day,” Pansy said and wrinkled her nose at him. “Somewhere on Diagon Alley?”

“Seamus’ new place?” Harry suggested.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “The Lion’s Den? He has no imagination at all.”

“Yes, and Blaise’s club is ever so clever,” Harry snarked right back. “The Snake Pit. How ever did he think of that?”

“Fine. Our friends are both unimaginative clods,” Pansy huffed at him. “I’ll go the Lion’s Den if we hit up the Snake Pit afterwards.”

“Fine.”

A slow, smug smile curved Pansy’s lips. “Excellent.”

As Harry put his arm around Pansy to Apparate them both back to Diagon Alley, he had the sneaking suspicion that he’d missed something.

 

 

 


End file.
